


Dead Poets are Forever

by whatisreggieshortfor



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989), Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Alex is Neil, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bobby is Charlie, Caleb is Nolan, Cameron still gets punched, Chris doesn’t exist, Dead Poets Society - Freeform, Happy Ending, Luke is Knox, M/M, Nick is Pitts, Ray is Keating, Reggie is Meeks, Richard Cameron is himself, Willie is Todd, different ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:06:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29681607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatisreggieshortfor/pseuds/whatisreggieshortfor
Summary: Based on Dead Poets Society, where Alex plays Neil and wants to dance. Ray is the wholesome and inspiring Mister Keating.
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Reggie Peters, Nick/Luke Patterson (Julie and The Phantoms), Ray Molina & Reggie Peters & Alex Mercer & Luke Patterson & Willie & Nick & Bobby Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Dead Poets are Forever

**Author's Note:**

> All the JatP boys have the last names of the DPS boys.  
> Alex Perry  
> Willie Anderson  
> Bobby Dalton  
> Reggie Meeks  
> Luke Overstreet  
> Nick Pitts

Welton Academy was the last place Willie wanted to attend school. No one wants to live in their brother’s shadow, but his parents’ didn’t seem to get that memo. They pulled him out of his old school at the end of the year, and when fall came around he was enrolled in Welton. He listened to Mister Caleb Covington drone on and on about the expectations of the student body. Willie tuned in long enough to hear him make the students recite something he called “the four pillars” being tradition, honor, discipline, and excellence, and how a high number of graduates go on to Ivy League schools. He knew the pleasantries were coming when his parents forced him into the line to meet Mister Nolan himself. He was basically running on autopilot until a boy came running up to him. And Willie’s shy little heart almost stopped at how pretty he was.

“Hey, I hear we’re going to be roommates.”Yup, that would be Willie’s luck. He has to room with this beautiful boy. He held out his hand, “I’m Alex Perry.”

“Willie Anderson.”

“Why’d you leave Balincrest?”

“My brother went here.” Willie shrugged.

“Oh, so you’re that Anderson.” Alex smirked.

Alex had just made it to his dorm with his bags when Cameron leaned against the door, “Alex, study group tonight?”

“Yeah, sure.” He answered half heartedly, politeness with Cameron was always annoying.

“Business as usual, huh?” The redhead grinned, “Hey, I hear you got stuck with the new kid? Looks like a stiff!” He started laughing as Willie came up to the doorway behind him, “Oops.”

Willie ignored him, busying himself at his desk as the boy disappeared. Alex smacked Willie on the back with some paper he had, “Listen, don’t mind Cameron. He was born with his foot in his mouth. You know what I mean?” Willie was about to nod when three boys appeared at the door, from the playfully smug expression on the first ones face, he’d guess he was the leader.

“Rumor has it, you did summer school.” The smug boy teased, but Alex’s replay made Willie think offhandedly that this was just their friendship.

“Yep. Chemistry. Father thought I should get ahead. How was your summer, slick?”

“Keen.” The boy replied as the three of them wandered into the room and he made himself comfortable on Alex’s bed, “Meeks. Door. Closed.”

“Yessir.” The black haired boy answered with a grin, swinging the door closed behind him.

“Gentleman,” Alex called from where he sat in the window, “What are the four pillars?”

The three other boys replied in unison, “Travesty. Horror. Decadence. Excrement.”

The boy in Alex’s bed lit up a cigarette, “Okay, study group. Meeks aced Latin. I didn’t quite flunk English. So, if you want, we’ve got our study group.”

“Sure,” Alex replied, “Cameron asked me too. Anyone mind including him?”

“Hmm,” the smoking boy hummed, “What’s his specialty? Boot licking?”

“Come in, he’s your roommate.”

“Not my fault!” The boy laughed.

The black haired boy with glasses seemed to notice Willie for the first time, “Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Reggie Meeks.”

Alex hoped up from his seat, “This is Willie Anderson.”

The boy held out his hand and Willie shook it, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

“Bobby Dalton.” The boy from the bed called, making no move to get up, Willie nodded at him. The other boy held out his hand.

“Luke Overstreet.” Willie shook his hand as Alex clapped him on the back.

“Willie’s brother was Jeffrey Anderson.”

Bobby smirked, “Oh, yeah, valedictorian, national merit scholar.”

Reggie grinned, “Oh, well, welcome to Hellton.”

“It’s every bit as hard as they say,” Bobby drawled, taking a drag from his cigarette, “Unless you’re a genius like Meeks.”

“He flatters me.” Reggie stage whispered, “That’s why I help him with Latin.”

“And English.” Bobby said under the poor disguise of a fake cough, “And trig.”

Every class they sat through was teachers rambling on and on in monotonous tones the entire morning. When Willie managed to get to his English class, he realized Alex and all of the blonde boy’s friends were in the same class. Which figured, since they were all the same age. Willie felt out of place, like he didn’t belong there. He had never had a lot of friends. The teacher, Mister Molina, stepped out of his office whistling a tune, but he didn’t stop at his desk. He didn’t even stop in the room, he just kept walking right out the door. He dipped his head back in, “Well come on.” The class shared a few confused glances as they got up and followed the man to the entranceway of the school. “‘Oh captain, my captain,’ who knows where that comes from?” It was silent as no one raised their hands, “Not a clue? It's from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mister Abraham Lincoln. Now, in this class you may call me Mister Molina, or if you’re feeling slightly more daring, oh captain, my captain.” There was a ripple of laughter through the students gathered around him. “Now let me dispel a few rumors so they don't fester into facts. Yes, I too attended Hell-ton and survived. And no, at that time I was not the mental giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a ninety-eight pound weakling. I would go to the beach and people would kick copies of Byron in my face.” There’s another ripple of laughter, Willie noticed the red head from his dorm looking confused while he tries to take notes before Mister Molina looks at a paper in his hand, “Now, Mister...Pitts, that’s a rather unfortunate name. Mister Pitts, where are you?” Willie sees the blonde boy, Nick, Alex had introduced him to raise his hand while a couple boys snickers around him. “Mister Pitts, would you open your hymnal to page 542 and read the first stanza of the poem you find there?”

“To the virgins, to make much of time?” Nick asked uncertain.

Mister Molina continued to smile, “Yes, that’s the one. Somewhat appropriate, isn’t it.”

Nick glanced back at his book, reading the passage asked of him, “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a flying, and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.”

Mister Molina nodded, “Thank you, Mister Pitts. ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’ The Latin term for this sentiment is Carpe Diem. Now who knows what this means?”

Reggie’s hand shoots up, “Carpe Diem, thats seize the day.”

“Very good, Mister?”

“Meeks.”

“Meeks, another unfortunate name. Seize the day. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Why does the writer use these lines?”

Willie sees Bobby answer, “Because he’s in a hurry?”

“No, ding.” Mister Molina hits an imaginary buzzer, and Bobby and Alex share an amused expression, “Thank you for playing anyway. Because we are food for worms lads. Because, believe it or not, each and every one of us in this room is one day going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die.” The teacherturns towards the trophy cases, filled with trophies, footballs, and team pictures. “Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them.” The students slowly gather around the cases and Mister Molina moves behind them. “They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlmen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in.” The students slowly leaned in toward the trophy cases skeptically, and Willie heard Mister Molina whisper in a gruff voice, “Carpe. Carpe Diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

“That was weird.” Nick muttered as they walked through the long corridor after class.

“But different.” Alex supplied.

“Spooky if you ask me.” Luke shrugged.

“Do you think he’s gonna test us on that stuff?” Cameron asked, staring at his notebook with a concerned expression.

“Come on, Cameron,” Bobby huffed, “Don’t you get anything?”

As the boys studied for their trig exam that night, Reggie and Nick fiddled with the radio they’d been building for weeks as several of their classmates played various games around them. The black haired boy moved the antenna until the radio eventually started to emit a high pitched hum, Nick beamed, “We got it!”

Bobby held his hand up to Reggie without looking over, and he obliged, holding the other boy’s hand just a bit longer than necessary as he grinned at Nick, “Holy cow!”

One of the teachers stepped in the door, “All right gentlemen, five minutes. Let’s go.” As the other students started gathering their papers, he looked at the boys and their technology, “That wouldn’t be a radio in your lap, would it, Mister Pitts?”

“No sir!” Nick said immediately, “Science experiment. Radar.” Reggie waved the antenna around as if he were demonstrating it.

The next day, Mister Molina was prepared to have class in the actual classroom. “Gentlemen, open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. Mister Anderson, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled ‘Understanding Poetry’?” Willie paled, staring down at his book, and Mister Molina took pity on him, “Mister Perry, would please read it for the class?”

Alex cleared his throat, putting on his glasses, “Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech. Then ask two questions: One, how artfully has the objective of the poem been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem's perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem’s greatest becomes a relatively simple matter.” Mister Molina got up from his desk to draw on the chalk board. “If the poem's score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and its importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness.” Mister Molina began to draw a corresponding graph on the board and Willie saw Cameron dutifully copy it down. “A sonnet by Byron may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, thereby revealing the poem to be truly great. As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will- so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry.” Alex set his book down and took off his glasses. Mister Molina turned away from

the chalkboard with a smile.

“Excrement. That's what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry. Cameron looked down at the graph he copied into his notes and quickly scribbled it out. “I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it.” Reggie stifled a giggle as Bobby suddenly appeared to become interested in the class. “Now I want you to rip out that page.” Everyone in the class wore matching confused and skeptical expressions. “Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it out. Rip it out!” Bobby looked around at the others, then down at his own notes, which consists of doodles. “Go on, rip it out.” Bobby rips the page out and holds it up, “Thank you Mr. Dalton. Gentlemen, tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction. I want it gone, history. Leave nothing of it. Rip it out. Rip! Begone J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. Rip, shred, tear. Rip it out. I want to hear nothing but ripping of Mr. Pritchard.” Reggie looks around reluctantly and then finally begins tearing out pages, but they see Cameron still hesitating. “It's not the bible, you're not going to go to hell for this. Go on, make a clean tear, I want nothing left of it.”

Cameron turned around to Alex, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Alex just forces him back around giddily, “Rip, rip, rip!”

“Keep ripping gentlemen. This is a battle, a war. And the casualties could be your hearts and souls.” Mister Molina holds out the basket to Bobby who spits out a wad of paper. “Thank you Mister Dalton. Armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry. No, we will not have that here. No more of Mister J. Evans Pritchard. Now in my class you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I see that look in Mister Pitts's eye, like nineteenth century literature has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school. Right? Maybe. Mister Hopkins, you may agree with him, thinking ‘Yes, we should simply study our Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions.’ I have a little secret for ya. Huddle up. Huddle up!” He waits as the boys get up from their seats and gather around him in the center of the class. “We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering,these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty,romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman: ‘O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.’” Willie’s eyes went wide as Mister Molina looked up at him, “What will your verse be?”

Alex grinned as he joined the boys at the lunch table, “I found his senior yearbook in the library. Listen to this, captain of the soccer team, editor of the school yearbook, Cambridge bound, Thigh man, and the Dead Poets Society.”

“Thigh man?” Bobby echoed with a smirk, and Willie noticed vaguely that Reggie sat pretty close to his side, “Mister M was a hell raiser.”

Cameron laughed, “Voted Man most likely to do anything!”

Luke leaned forward, “What’s the Dead Poets Society?”

Alex shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Reggie leaned further into Bobby’s space, “Is there a picture in the yearbook?”

“Nothing,” Alex shrugged again, “No other mention of it.” Without ever discussing it, the boys found themselves clustered together as they walked the school lawn, finding Mister Molina near the pond whistling the same time he did on the first day of class. “Mister Molina? Mister Molina? Sir?” When there was still no response, Alex tried again, “Oh captain, my captain?”

Mister Molina immediately turned around with a smile, “Gentlemen.”

“We were just looking in your old yearbook.” Alex offered, handing the book to the man.

Mister Molina crouched down on the lawn, “God.”

Alex crouched down next to him. “What was the Dead Poets Society?”

Mister Molina smiled faintly, “I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that.”

“Why? What was it?”

“Gentlemen, can you keep a secret?” Mister Molina asked with a smirk.

“Sure.” Alex answered as the other boys knelt beside them.

“The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see we'd gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work its magic.”

Luke looked a bit skeptical, “You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?”

“No Mister Overstreet, it wasn't just ‘guys,’ we weren't a Greek organization, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created, gentlemen, not a bad way to spend an evening eh? Thank you Mister Perry for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that, especially my picture.” He added with a chuckle, turning back to the pong to continue his walk.

“Dead Poets Society.” Alex muttered as the bell rang.

“What?” Cameron asked, confused.

“I say we go tonight.” Alex announced to the boys.

“Tonight?” Bobby echoed.

“Where’s this cave he’s talking about?” Nick asked, but from the looks he could tell they were all wondering.

“It’s beyond the stream.” Alex answered, “I know where it is.”

“That’s miles.” Nick said skeptically.

“Sounds boring to me.” Cameron complained.

“Don’t go.” Bobby smirked.

“Do you know how many demerits were talking, Dalton?” Cameron argued as they marched quickly back to the school.

“So don’t come, please.” Bobby bit back.

“All I’m saying is that we have to be careful, we can’t get caught.”

“No shit, Sherlock!”

Alex looked at the boys, “So who’s in?”

“I’m in!” Bobby was quick to join.

“Me too.” Cameron caved.

“I don’t know Alex-“

“Pittsie, come on!” Bobby called.

“His grades are hurting, Bobbers!” Reggie argued.

“You can help him, Meeks!”

Nick scoffed, “What is this? A midnight study group?”

“Forget it,” Alex interrupted, “Nick, you’re coming. Reggie, are your grades hurting, too?”

“I’ll try anything once.” The bespectacled boy offered.

Bobby smirked again, “Except girls.”

“Very funny.” Reggie rolled his eyes fondly at the boy.

“What about you, Luke?” Bobby called out.

“I don’t know-“

“Come on, it’ll help you get who you want!” Bobby offered, gaze flicking to Nick and back.

“Yeah? How?” Luke perked up.

Bobby stopped running, grabbing hold of Luke’s collar. “They swoon!”

“Why do they swoon, Bobby? Bobby!” Luke called as Bobby ran into the building, chasing after him, “Why do they swoon?”

In study hall, Alex left the group with a map he’d drawn up to check on Willie, “Willie, are you coming tonight?”

“No.”

“Why not? God, you were there. You heard Molina. Don't you want to do something about it?”

“Yes, but-“

“But? But what?” Alex asked confused.

Willie glanced back down at his books, “Molina said that everybody took turns reading and I don't want to do that.”

Alex softened, “Gosh, you really have a problem with that, don't you?”

Willie felt his face flush and he hated it. “N- no, I don't have a problem. Alex, I just- I just don't want to do it, okay?”

“All right. What if you didn't have to read? What if you just came and listened?”

Willie’s eyebrows furrowed together, “That's not how it works.”

Alex huffed a laugh, “Forget how it works. What if - what if they said it was okay?”

“What? What are you gonna do, go up and ask them?” Alex shrugged. “No. No, Alex.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Alex. Alex!” But the blonde was already gone.

“Why do you want him to go so badly?” Bobby teased. Alex glanced at Cameron, opting not to give a real verbal answer.

“I just think it’d be good for him.” He said, glancing at Reggie and back at Bobby, and he saw his friend’s eyes light up in understanding.

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t see the problem with him not reading. Boys?”

The others shrugged, “Great.” Alex grinned, moving back to Willie, “You’re in.”

Back in the dorms, Alex looks out into the hallway at Cameron and Bobby. When Cameron flashes him a thumbs up, he grins, stepping into his room. He grabs his coat and a flashlight, noticing a worn down copy of “Five Centuries of Verse” on his desk. When he opens the cover, the first thing he sees is Mister Molina’s name scribbled in the upper corner, and a hand written poem by Henry David Thoreau with the header “To be read at the opening of DPS meetings.” Alex grinned, grabbing the book and adding it to his bag.

As the boys searched the trees for the cave, Bobby jumped out, grabbing Reggie’s shoulder with his flashlight low, “Aaaargh, I’m a dead poet!”

“Ahh, Bobby!”

Bobby immediately broke into a fit of laughter, pressing a quick peck to Reggie’s cheek, “I’m sorry, babe. I had to.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re very funny.” He muttered, readjusting his glasses in an attempt to hide the blush he always got when Bobby managed to be affection without Cameron’s eyes on them.

Bobby turned toward the sound of the others, having found the cave before he jumped out to scare his boyfriend, “Guys! Over here!”

The cave isn’t much, a low hung stone ceiling and mud floor, but the boys look around in wonder like it’s the greatest thing they’ve seen since enrolling at the school. Alex turned to the boys, cigarette in one hand, open book in the other, “I hereby reconvene the Dead Poets Society.” The boys cheer. “Welton chapter. The meetings will be conducted by myself and the other new initiates now present. Willie Anderson, because he prefers not to read, will keep minutes of the meetings. I'll now read the traditional opening message by society member Henry David Thoreau. ‘I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.’”

“I'll second that.” Bobby called.

Alex grinned as he continued, “‘To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.’” Several boys whistle softly in reaction to the poem. “And Molina’smarked a bunch of other pages.” Alex began flipping through the book.

Bobby looked at the boys, “All right, intermission. Dig deep right here. Right here, lay it down.” He gestured to the center of the ground.

“On the mud? We're gonna put our food on the mud?” Cameron complained.

Bobby groaned, “Meeks, put your coat down. Picnic blanket.” 

Reggie rolled his eyes, “Yes sir, use Meeks' coat.” Bobby subtly took off his own coat and draped it across Reggie’s shoulders to keep him warm, and Willie found himself wondering just how the two of them were when Reggie flushed with a tiny smile.

Bobby continued like nothing happened, “Don't keep anything back either. You guys are always bumming my smokes.” Reggie laid his coat down and everyone dumped their food on it. Amongst

the pile are chocolate chip cookies, a box of raisins, a few apples, an orange, and half a roll.

“Raisins?” Alex asked, amused.

Luke made a face, “Yuck.”

Bobby snorted, “Wait a minute, who gave us half a roll?”

Nick answered with his mouth full, “I'm eating the other half.”

“Come on.”

“You want me to put it back?”

Willie made a face and he saw Alex giving him an amused look.

They spent the rest of their time in the cave reading poems and telling stories until they needed to head inside for the night. Reggie took the last one, rapping the poem out instead of reading it, “Then I had religion, then I had a vision. I could not turn from their revel in derision. Then I saw the Congo creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track. Then I saw the Congo creeping through the black-“

“Meeks, Meeks!” Bobby chanted.

“...cutting through the forest with a golden track. Then I saw the Congo creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track. Luke picked up a metal container and began using it as a drum. The other boys stood and began going in a circle, making music with sticks of wood, combs, etc. “Then I saw the Congo creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track. Then I saw the Congo creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track.”

Eventually the others joined in as they made their way into the night back to the building, “Then I saw the Congo creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with...”

The next day, in English, Mister Molina is standing before the class, “A man is not very tired, he is exhausted! And don’t use very sad, use-“ he points to Luke, “Come on, Mister Overstreet, you twerp.” He called good naturedly.

“Morose?” Luke called out.

“Exactly! Now language was developed for one reason. And that reason is? Mister Anderson?” Willie looked up, mildly terrified, Mister Molina watched him for a second before diverting his attention, “Mister Perry?”

“Uh, to communicate.” Alex offered.

“No! To woo women!”

Quietly, Bobby leaned over to Luke, “Does that make Meeks and Pitts women for us?”

Luke stifled a laugh into his hand.

They looked back up as Mister Molina climbed onto his desk, “Why do I stand up here?”

“To feel taller.” Bobby called sarcastically.

“No!” He rang the bell on his desk with his foot. “Thank you for playing, Mister Dalton. I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must view things in a different way. You see, the world looks very different from up here. Don’t believe me? Come see for yourselves!” He called, jumping down. Alex and Bobby were the first to get up, but the rest of the class quickly followed, taking turns standing on the desk and jumping down. “Just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in another way. Even though it may seem silly or wrong, you must try! Now, when you read, don't just consider what the author thinks. Consider what you think. Boys, you must strive to find your own voice. Because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, ‘Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ Don't be resigned to that. Break out! Now, in addition to your essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own, an original work.” The students began to groan and the man began flickering the lights off and on while chanting ominously. “That's right! You have to deliver it aloud in front of the class on Monday. Bonne chance, gentlemen. Oh, and Mister Anderson?” He called from the door, “Don't think that I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you.” He flicked the light off, leaving Willie to jump down in the darkness as the students laughed.

Everyone was enjoying a free period the next day when noisy static is replaced by music as Nick climb down form the peak of the school roof to join Reggie at their makeshift radio. “We got it, Pittsie. We got it! Radio Free America!” They started dancing around as Bobby and Luke watched fondly.

Bobby nudged Luke, “We’re too far gone to get rid of these nerds, aren’t we?”

“Sadly, we are.” Luke agreed as Reggie held a hand out to Bobby and Nick held one out to Luke, each taking their partner into poorly led swing step moves that left them all in giggles.

Alex approached Willie as he sat on his bed working on his poem for English. “I found it!” He announced.

“Found what?” Willie ventured.

Alex grinned, “What I wanna do right now! What’s really really inside of me.” The blonde shoved a paper into his hands as he dropped his notebook into his lap.

“ _The Nutcracker_?” He looked between the blonde and the paper over and over like an answer would appear.

“This is it.”

“What is it?”

“A ballet, dummy!” Alex grinned, leaning against the wall above Willie’s bed.

“I know that!” Willie retorted, “Wh-what does it have to do with you?”

“They’re putting it on at Henley Hall. Open try outs. Open try outs!” He jumped up onto his bed, and Willie could practically feel the blonde’s excitement oozing off of him. He was almost mesmerized by the sight. “I’m gonna try it! For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to dance, but my father’s never let me. For the first time in my life I know what I want to do, and for the first time in my life I’m gonna do it whether my father wants me to or not! Carpe Diem!”

“Alex,” Willie’s brain may have been distracted by the cute boy, but the logical side was still functioning, “How are you gonna do the ballet if your father won’t let you?”

“First I gotta get the part, I can worry about the rest later.” Alex dropped into his usual seat the window and Willie didn’t want to argue that they would no doubt expect a parents permission for him to participate, both the local theater and the school. He didn’t want to hurt the other boy’s excitement. So instead he turned back to his poem. “You're coming to the meeting this afternoon?”

Willie shrugged, “I don't know. Maybe.”

Alex sighed, “Nothing Mister Molina has to say means shit to you, does it, Willie?”

“W-What is that supposed to mean?”

“You're in the club! Being in the club means being stirred up by things. You look about as stirred up as a cesspool.”

Alex got up from the window and stood over Willie.

“So- You want me out?”

“No! I want you in, but being in means you gotta do something. Not just say you're in.”

“Well, listen, Alex. I-I appreciate this concern, but I-I'm not like you. All right? You-you-you say thing and people listen. I'm-I’m not like that.”

Alex spoke softly, “Don't you think you could be?”

“No! I--I, I don't know, but that's not the point. The, the, the point is that there's nothing you can do about it, so you can just butt out. I can take care of myself just fine. All right?” Willie huffed, hoping to get the boy off his back.

“No.”

Willie’s head snapped up to look at him, “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

A smile crept over Alex’s face, and Willie would almost swear his heart stopped. “No.”

Before Willie could react, Alex snatched his notebook from his lap, jumping to the other side of the room. Willie felt his heart drop at what he had written as he chased the other boy. “Alex! Give it back!”

“‘If we are but to dream-‘ Poetry! I’m being chased by Walt Whitman!” The two of them went round and round in circles, as Alex’s friends started to arrive in the doorway.

Reggie nudged Bobby as Willie finally got a hand on his notebook, “I told you those boys oozed chemistry.”

“You should never say ooze again, but I agree.”

Willie felt his face flush as Reggie closed the door, “Isn’t it forbidden to date a classmate here?”

Bobby raised a challenging eyebrow with a smirk, as he snaked his arm around Reggie’s waist, “You’re not gonna rat on us, are you?” Willie saw Reggie’s face drop as he toyed with his glasses, and he saw the real vulnerability in Bobby’s eyes that he tried to play off with nonchalance.

“Of course not.”

“He wouldn’t rat on his friends.” Alex told him with an eye roll. “Besides, everyone in study group knows about you two, except Cameron.”

Reggie immediately turned to Willie, his glasses falling slightly, “We won’t tell him about you and Alex. Please don’t tell him about us. He’d report us.”

“Me-me and Alex? We-we aren’t-“ Willie was unsure what to say. 

“Not yet.” Alex winked.

“I got the part!” Alex yelled through the corridor, stopping momentarily to bang in Bobby’s door, “Bobby! I got the part! I’m going be in the show!” Each of his friends clapped him on the back as he made his way to Willie and their shared dorm, “Okay, okay.”

“How are you gonna do this?”

“They need a letter of permission from my father and Mister Covington.” Alex grins as he sits at his typewriter.

“You aren’t seriously going to write it.”

“Oh, yes, I am.”

“Alex, you’re crazy.”

“Crazy for you.” Alex winked before turning back to the keyboard, “Okay. ‘I am writing to you on behalf of my son, Alex Perry.’”

“The cat sat on the mat." The boy read to the class, immediately crumpling his paper in his hand when he finished.

Mister Molina smirked, “Congratulations, Mister Hopkins. Yours is the first poem to ever have a negative score on the Pritchard scale. We're not laughing at you, we're laughing near you. I don't mind that your poem had a simple theme. Sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things, like a cat, or a flower or rain. You see, poetry can come from anything with the stuff of revelation in it. Just don't let your poems be ordinary. Now, who's next?” Mister Molina stopped in front of Willie’s desk, “Mister Anderson, I see you sitting there in agony. Come on, Willie, step up. Let's put you out of your misery.”

“I, I didn't do it. I didn't write a poem.” Willie mumbled.

“Mister Anderson thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, Willie? Isn't that your worst fear? Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal.” Molina walked up to the blackboard to write. ‘I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.’ W. W., “Uncle Walt again. Now, for those of you who don't know, a yawp is a loud cry or yell. Now, Willie, I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric ‘yawp.’ Come on. You can't yawp sitting down. Let's go. Come on. Up.”

Willie reluctantly stood and followed Mister Molina to the front. “You gotta get in ‘yawping’ stance.”

“A yawp?”

“No, not just a yawp.” Mister Molina dropped his voice and spoke from his diaphragm, “A barbaric yawp.”

“Yawp.” Willie said quietly.

“Come on, louder.”

“Yawp.”

“No, that's a mouse. Come on. Louder.”

“Yawp.”

“Oh, good God, boy. Yell like a man!”

Willie finally snapped loudly, “Yawp!”

“There it is. You see, you have a barbarian in you, after all.” Willie moved to go back to his seat, but the man stopped him, “Now, you don't get away that easy.” Mister Molina turned him around to point out a picture on the wall. “The picture of Uncle Walt up there. What does he remind you of? Don't think. Answer. Go on.”

Mister Molina started to circle around him, “A m-m-madman.”

“What kind of madman? Don't think about it. Just answer again.”

“A c-crazy madman.”

“No, you can do better than that. Free up your mind. Use your imagination. Say the first thing that pops into your head, even if it's total gibberish. Go on, go on.”

“Uh, uh, a sweaty-toothed madman.”

“Good God, boy, there's a poet in you, after all. There, close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close 'em. Now, describe what you see.”

Mister Molina put his hands over Willie’s eyes and they began to slowly

spin around. “Uh, I-I close my eyes. Uh, and this image floats beside me.”

“A sweaty-toothed madman?”

“A sweaty-toothed madman with a stare that pounds my brain. 

“Oh, that's excellent. Now, give him action. Make him do something.”

“H-His hands reach out and choke me.”

“That's it. Wonderful. Wonderful.”

Mister Molina removes his hands, but Willie doesn’t open his eyes. Alex and their friends share glances, watching intently, “And, and all the time he's mumbling.”

“What's he mumbling?”

“M-Mumbling, "Truth. Truth is like, like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold." 

The students began to laugh and Willie started to open his eyes, but Mister Molina

quickly gestured for him to close them again. Bobby and Alex glared at the boys that dared to laugh and they quickly quieted down.

“Forget them, forget them. Stay with the blanket. Tell me about that blanket.”

“Y-Y-Y-You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream.” Willie opened his eyes to see Mister Molina smiling, but he he wanted to hide away from the intensity of the look of the others as they absorbed what he’d said, until suddenly they all started clapping. Alex is beaming like he’s never been more of someone, and it fills Willie’s stomach with butterflies.

“Never forget this.” Mister Molina whispered with a grin.

That night in the cave, all the boys are smoking from pipes as they wait for Alex, and when he finally comes in he’s carrying an old lamp.

“What’s that?” Reggie asked, pointing at it.

Nick rolled his eyes, “Duh, it’s a lamp, Meeks.”

Alex whipped out the lamp shade, revealing the base of the lamp in the shape of a man, “This is the god of the cave.”

“The god of the cave!” Reggie called out with a grin as Alex planted it in the middle of the cave.

Bobby started playing random noises on the saxophone he’d brought, “We gonna start this meeting?”

“Bobby, what are you doing?” Nick asked skeptically, practically hiding behind Luke at the loud noises.

Bobby hopped to his feet, clearing his throat, “Gentlemen, ‘Poetrusic’ by Bobby Dalton.”

“Oh, no.” Reggie muttered fondly as Bobby played more erratic notes.

“Laughing, crying, tumbling, mumbling. Gotta do more. Gotta be more.” More erratic notes. “Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming. Gotta do more! Gotta be more!”

Suddenly he started to play real music on the saxophone.

“Wow!” Reggie exclaimed.

“That was nice. That was great. Where did you learn to play like that?” Nick asked, still poised behind Luke.

Bobby shrugged, “My parents made me take the clarinet for years. 

Cameron brightened, “I love the clarinet.”

“I hated it. The saxophone. The saxophone is more _sonorous_.”

“Vocabulary.” Reggie smirked, giving his boyfriend an approving look.

“Another thing, I no longer want to go by the name Bobby. I hereby declare, my name is Nuwanda.”

“Nuwanda?” Alex snickered.

“Nuwanda!” Bobby confirmed.

Cameron was the first to head back inside that night, and Luke immediately turned to the other boys, “I can’t take it anymore. I hate seeing you guys being cute,” he gestured at Reggie and Bobby where they were holding hands, “I’m jealous of what you guys have.”

“So, what are you gonna do?” Alex smirked, knowing full well Luke had been waiting for Nick.

Luke just spun around to face the blonde boy that had been pressed against his back most of the night, “Go out with me!”

Nick blinked, “Me? Aren’t you straight?”

Reggie and Bobby immediately lost themselves to a fit of giggles while Alex and Willie tried their hardest to hold it in, Luke sputtered, “No!”

“Oh. Okay then, yeah, let’s do it.”

Now Luke blinked, “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Nick grinned, taking his hand as the other boys cheered.

A few nights later, as they were in the cave, Bobby made an announcement to the Dead Poets. “You did what?” Cameron squeaked.

“I submitted a letter to the school newsletter in the name of the Dead Poets. Demanding they lift the homophobic rules set in place decades ago. I mean it’s twenty twenty-one.”

“You had no right to do that, Bobby!” Alex interjected, “You don’t speak for the club!”

“Are we just playing around out here, or do we mean what we say? For all we do is come together and reach a bunch of poems to each other. What the hell are we doing?”

“How did you do it?” Nick asked.

“I’m one of the providers.” Bobby shrugged, “I slipped it in. Besides nobody knows who we are.”

“Well, don't you think they're gonna figure out who wrote it? They're gonna come to you and ask to know what the Dead Poets Society is. Bobby, you had no right to do something like that.”

“The name’s Nuwanda, Cameron.”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck, “All right, but you still shouldn't have done it, Bobby. This could mean trouble. You don't speak for the club.”

“Hey, would you not worry about your precious little neck? If they catch me, I'll tell them I made it up.”

It was only a day later when Mister Covington called all the students to assembly. Every member of the Dead Poets knew what was coming. “In this week of Welton's Honor there appeared a profane and unauthorized article. Rather than spend my valuable time ferreting out the guilty persons -- and let me assure you I will find them -- I'm asking any and all students who knows anything about this article to make themselves known here and now. Whoever the guilty persons are, this is your only chance to avoid expulsion from this school.”

Suddenly a phone rang through the assembly hall, and Bobby’s voice could be heard when it was answered, “Welton Academy. Hello. Yes he is, just a moment.” He stood up, holding the phone in his hands, “It’s for you, sir. It’s God. He says you should repeal the rule.” Willie put his head down as he saw Mister Covington’s face go red in his anger.

Each of the Dead Poets waited just inside the doors of their dorm, watching as Bobby limped back to his own room after no doubt facing his corporal punishment. Alex rushed to the door, “Bobby, you kicked out?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“I’m to turn everybody in, apologize to the school, and all will be forgiven.”

“What are you gonna do, Bobby?” Silence. “Bobby?”

“Goddammit Alex, the name is Nuwanda.” Bobby smirked as he shut his door, and Alex smirked too, knowing his friend was the definition of loyal.

Alex had finally had his last day of practice for the ballet, but when he got back to the school his father was waiting. “Father, please let me expla-“

“Don't you dare talk back to me! It's bad enough that you've wasted your time with this, this absurd dancing business. But you deliberately deceived me! How, how, how did you expect to get away with this? Answer me. Who put you up to it? Was it this new man? This, uh, Mister Molina?”

“No. Nobody-- I thought I'd surprise you. I've gotten all A's in every class.”

“Did you think I wasn't going to find out? ‘Oh, my niece is in a ballet with your son,’ says Mrs. Marks. ‘No, no, no,’ I say, ‘you must be mistaken. My son's not in a ballet.’ You made me a liar of me, Alexander! Now, tomorrow you go to them and you tell them that you're quitting.”

“No, I can't. I have one of the main parts. The performance is tomorrow night.” Alex pleaded.

“I don't care if the world comes to an end tomorrow night. You are through with that ballet. Is that clear? Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mister Perry moved to leave and then turned around. “I made a great many sacrifices to get you here, Alex, and you will not let me down.”

“No, sir.”

Alex rushed to Mister Molina’s office, “I just talked to my father. He's making me quit the performance at Henley Hall. Dancing’s everything to me. I-- But he doesn't know. He-- I can see his point. We're not a rich family like Charlie's, and we-- But he's planning the rest of my life for me, and I-- H-He's never asked me what I want.”

The teacher gave him a sympathetic look, “Have you ever told your father what you just told me? About your passion for dancing. You ever show him that?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I can't talk to him this way.”

“Then you're performing for him, too. You're playing the part of the dutiful son. I know this sounds impossible, but you have to talk to him. You have to show him who you are, what your heart is.”

“I know what he'll say.” Alex responded sadly, “He'll tell me that dancing’s a whim, and I should forget it. That they're counting on me. He'll just tell me to put it out of my mind, ‘for my own good.’”

“You are not an indentured servant.” Mister Molina told him, “If it's not a whim for you, you prove it to him by your conviction and your passion. You show him that And if he still doesn't believe you, well, by then you'll be out of school and you can do anything you want.”

A tear fell down Alex’s cheek and he wiped it away.

“No. What about the performance? The show's tomorrow night.”

“Well, you have to talk to him before tomorrow night.”

“Isn't there an easier way?”

“No.”

“I'm trapped.”

“No, you're not.” Mister Molina told him with a soft smile.

Alex never did speak with his dad, and Willie knew that. He also knew that Alex told Mister Molina that he had. “Why did you lie?”

“Because this is what I was born to do, Willie! My father will never see that. But when I graduate? I don’t have to follow his orders anymore. I can be a dancer like I want to. I can find shows across the country if I feel like it!” Alex was filled with such a passion, it was almost blinding to Willie.

“Okay. Just be careful.” Willie said carefully, “I don’t want you to get hurt because of what you want.”

Alex deflated a bit, “What happens when he finds out I lied?”

Willie slung his arm around Alex’s shoulders where they sat in their room, “Just look at the bright side, the year is almost over. You’ll be eighteen before you know it, and you won’t have to live up to his dreams of what kind of son you should be.” Willie smiled shyly, and Alex was almost too lost in it to listen to him, “You don’t have to follow his path for you and become a doctor. One day, sooner or later, you’ll wake up in a big city next to the love of your life, and you’ll go to dance rehearsal and perform sold out shows and prove to your dad that your passion is something he should be proud of you for having.”

“Thanks.” Alex decided he may as well take a chance, “Hey, Willie? You can tell me if I’m way off. But I’ve been flirting with you, and I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but it seemed kind of like you were into it? So would you-“ Willie cut him off pressing a kiss to Alex’s cheek.

“Maybe Nuwanda was right.” He told the blonde softly, “Maybe they do need to get rid of the rule.”

Willie joined the other boys in the bathroom as they got ready, reaching over and messing up Cameron’s hair. “Oh come on, Anderson!” Soon, they were all in the car with Mister Molina to go see Alex in the ballet. Willie didn’t miss Mister Molina grinning to himself when Bobby took Reggie’s hand when the lights died down, or when Nick leaned into Luke’s shoulder more than strictly necessary. They shared a glance and he pressed a finger to his lips, letting Willie know he’d keep it their secret. As soon as the curtain rose, the boys were enthralled. Bobby was not the type to sit still for something he seemed boring, but even he did not take his eyes off the stage. When the performance finally ended, the head female ballerina pulled Alex to the front and all the Dead Poets let out a loud Yawp! of applause. They ran out to the front of the hall to congratulate him, only to see his father dragging him away. The boys called their amazement, and Mister Molina told Alex how in awe he was. But Alex’s father cut him off, warning the teacher to leave him alone. Bobby stepped forward, but Mister Molina shushed him, warning him he’d make it worse.

Willie was up the entire night, sitting in Meeks and Pitts’ room with the rest of the Dead Poets. When the morning came, they were told that Alex was being withdrawn from the school. Cameron rolled his eyes, “It’s not like it’s any surprise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke snapped at him.

“Oh please, if he hadn’t listened to the ‘great captain’ he would’ve been fine!”

Willie shook his head, “It isn’t Mister Keating’s fault and you know it! Alex would’ve done it anyway! He loves to dance.”

“All I know is they’re gonna question us, and if you guys are smart you’ll tell them it’s Molina’s fault.” Before anyone could stop him, Bobby lunged forward and drove his fist into Cameron’s nose. Reggie and Luke grabbed him quickly as the red headed boy flew back, lifting his hand to his bloody face, “You just signed your expulsion papers, _Nuwanda_.” He spit the name out, storming out of the room.

True to Cameron’s word, they fired Mister Molina for having a hand in Alex’s defiance. But when Mister Covington took over the English class, and Mister Molina came to collect his things, Willie was not going to let him go quietly. Even as the head of the school shouted for them to be quiet and sit down, Willie looked at the seats that had been occupied by Bobby and Alex the week before. He shook his head, getting to his feet, “Mister Molina, we don’t blame you for any of this.” He climbed up to stand on his desk, “O captain, my captain!”

Reggie followed, climbing on top of his own desk, “O captain, my captain!”

Soon, Nick, Luke, and most of the other boys stood on theirs as well. Mister Molina smiled at them before exiting, but Willie couldn’t wait to hear from Alex so he could tell him about it.

A year later, when Willie woke in the middle of the night, he looked out his window at the bustling city below. He thought about different his life was a year ago, listening to the night life he had now grown used to. “Hey.” Willie heard behind him, turning to see a sleep rattled Alex making his way over.

“Hey,” Willie smiled, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. “What are you doing up?”

“Oh please,” Alex laughed, “Can anyone sleep when Nick and Luke are going at it in the next room?”

“No.” They turned to see Bobby with his arms around Reggie and an exasperated expression, “They don’t know the definition of quiet.”

“The show is tomorrow, right?” Reggie asked through a yawn, dragging Bobby over to where the boys were perched at the window.

“Yup.” Alex smiled.

“And you sent him the ticket?” Reggie asked curiously.

“What do you take me for, Meeks? Of course I did.” Willie grinned. “Mister M said he’ll be there, and he gave me his Dead Poets word.”


End file.
